Part One — The Accusation
If you were arrested for being a Christian, would there be enough evidence to convict you?
That question, simple as it sounds, has a way of slipping beneath our armor. It doesn’t ask about your denomination, your baptism certificate, or the hymns you grew up singing in Sabbath School. It doesn’t ask whether you’ve served as a deacon or taught a class or sat in the same pew for thirty years. It leaps past all of that and asks something far more unsettling: Is there something about you that reveals Jesus Himself?
We don’t like questions like that because they don’t let us hide. They peel away every badge of identity and look straight at the soul. But sometimes that’s exactly what we need. Sometimes God invites us into a deeper honesty than we would ever dare choose for ourselves.
So I want you to imagine something with me. It may be uncomfortable at first, but stay with it. Picture yourself in a courtroom—not as a spectator, not as a juror, but as the one on trial. The courtroom is hushed. Everyone rises as the judge enters. He takes His seat, looks down over the room, and nods to the bailiff.
The charge is read aloud with solemnity: “This person stands accused of being a follower of Jesus Christ.”
You swallow hard. You didn’t see this coming. You weren’t prepared. And now everything about your life will be examined in the open. You look to your left and see the prosecutor rise. His expression is unreadable, neither hostile nor friendly. He simply says, “Your Honor, the state intends to present evidence that this individual is indeed one who belongs to Jesus of Nazareth.”
But then he pauses—just long enough for you to wonder whether he actually has anything to present. He clears his throat and glances down at an empty folder. Something in your chest tightens.
And that’s when the deeper question hits you: If someone were to gather the moments of your life—your habits, your words, your private decisions, your reactions under pressure—would they find anything that unmistakably points to Christ?
Would anyone step forward to say, “Yes, I’ve seen Jesus in her compassion,” or “I’ve witnessed His spirit in his patience,” or “I’ve watched how she treats people when she doesn’t need to impress anyone”?
Would your spouse be able to whisper, “Yes, he’s different since Christ entered his life”?
Would your children say, “My mother is not perfect, but she models Jesus to me”?
Would your coworkers notice that you respond differently than others do—that your calm, your integrity, your refusal to retaliate or speak harshly is not natural but supernatural?
Or would the silence in that courtroom be suffocating?
Because the truth is, there are moments when our lives look more like the world than like Christ. Moments when our reactions betray us. Moments when the fruit Jesus spoke of is hard to find. Moments when the prosecutor would have to search through scraps of our behavior to see whether grace has actually changed anything within us.
Jesus said something both beautiful and uncomfortable: “By their fruits you will know them.” He didn’t say, “By their membership you will know them,” or “By their Sabbath-keeping,” or “By their theological correctness.” He said fruits—evidence, the lived-out reality of a transformed heart.
James takes it even deeper, insisting that faith without works is dead—not because works save us, but because real faith cannot help but produce a changed life. Grace never leaves a person where it found them. It doesn’t simply forgive; it transforms. It doesn’t merely pardon; it renews. Where Jesus moves in, evidence eventually follows.
So the question stands before us with a quiet but relentless persistence: If you were arrested for being a Christian, would there be enough evidence to convict you?
Not evidence that you believe Christianity is true.
Plenty of people believe that in theory.
Not evidence that you attend services faithfully.
Crowds followed Jesus without being His disciples.
Not evidence that you can articulate doctrinal distinctives.
The Pharisees could do that flawlessly.
The question is whether Christ is alive in you, whether His presence has reshaped the contours of your identity, your desires, your choices, your voice, your habits, your temperament, your loyalties.
And that question leads us straight into something larger—something that reaches far beyond your personal story or your own spiritual journey. That question opens a door into a much bigger reality: the great controversy.
We sometimes forget that our own lives do not unfold on a small stage. We are not living out a private drama seen only by God and ourselves. Scripture tells us that the universe is watching, that our lives unfold in a cosmic courtroom, that what we choose and how we live bears witness to the truth about God’s character in the face of an enemy’s accusations.
Paul describes us as a “spectacle to the universe, to angels and to men.” That is courtroom language. That is the language of testimony, observation, witness.
The great controversy is not an abstract doctrine. It is the backdrop of your daily life. There is a real enemy, and he has already revealed exactly who he is. Jesus didn’t describe him mildly or metaphorically. He called him a murderer, a deceiver, the father of lies, the accuser of the brethren. When Satan speaks, truth evaporates. When he acts, destruction follows.
We do not need a theological textbook to see his fingerprints. Just look at the world. Look at the brokenness in families, the violence in communities, the addictions that choke out hope, the mental anguish that steals sleep, the waves of despair that crash over people who appear strong on the outside. Look at the wars that tear nations apart, the cruelty that hides in the human heart, the self-destructive choices that every one of us has tasted. All of it is the fallout of believing the serpent’s lie about God.
Satan promised freedom and delivered bondage. He promised enlightenment and delivered confusion. He promised self-rule and delivered slavery to impulses we cannot control.
But God, in contrast, has revealed Himself over and over and over again. Through prophets, through the covenants, through mercy that seems too soft for a holy God and patience that stretches farther than our rebellion deserves. And then—when words were not enough—He stepped into human flesh, walked our streets, touched our wounds, carried our griefs, and climbed a cross reserved for criminals.
Calvary is not simply a moment of suffering. It is evidence. It is God taking the witness stand in the courtroom of the universe and declaring, “This is who I am. This is My character. This is the truth about Me.” And the resurrection—oh, the resurrection—was heaven’s thunderous verdict: “Everything He said is true. Everything He is, is trustworthy. Everything He promised, He will fulfill. And everything the enemy claimed is a lie.”
If the cross is evidence of God’s character, then your life becomes evidence of your allegiance.
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Part Two — The Witness Takes the Stand
The cross revealed God’s character, and the resurrection confirmed His truth.
But the great controversy does not end with Christ’s victory.
It continues in the arena of human lives—ordinary, fragile, imperfect lives like yours and mine. The enemy knows he cannot defeat Christ, so he turns his attention to the next vulnerable point of attack: the evidence of Christ within His people.
This is why Peter writes, “Your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.” Satan cannot touch the throne of God anymore, so he lunges at the ones who bear God’s image and carry God’s name. And the startling thing is that he does not always attack by tempting people with evil. More often, he attacks by trying to erase or silence the evidence of God’s presence within them.
Somewhere in the heavenly courtroom, the accuser points at you and says, “There—there is nothing special about that one. Let me prove it. Let me apply pressure. Let me tear at the edges of their faith. Let me shake the foundations they stand on. They won’t last. They’ll fold. They’ll forget. They’re no different than anyone else.”
But the One who redeemed you stands beside you as Advocate and says, “Watch. Watch what grace can do in a surrendered life. Watch what the Spirit can form in a receptive heart. Watch what evidence grows in soil watered by prayer.”
And that is why the witness stand in this courtroom is not a wooden box at the front of a building. It is your everyday life. The universe watches not for perfection, but for allegiance. Not for spotless behavior, but for a direction of heart that returns to Christ again and again, even when the journey is difficult and the night grows long.
Sometimes, however, the evidence becomes visible in extraordinary moments—moments when faith is tested so fiercely that only God’s presence could sustain it. And that is where the story I want to share with you takes the stand.
I once visited the home of a pastor who carried the kind of scars you do not see on the surface. He welcomed me with gentle eyes, the kind that had seen sorrow and yet somehow shone with quiet joy. We sat together in his home, a simple dwelling, warm and peaceful. But the peace I felt there had been bought at a terrible price.
He began telling me what had happened one Friday evening—not years earlier, but recently enough that the tremble in his voice had not yet faded. The sun had just set, the candles lit, the Sabbath begun. His family had gathered to greet the holy hours with prayer when suddenly shouts erupted outside. Before they could react, the front door burst open. A mob surged into the home, their faces twisted with hatred.
They seized him before his wife and children could even rise from the floor. They dragged him across the room, through the doorway, and into the street. His wife followed to the threshold, but fear rooted her feet to the ground. She clutched the doorframe with shaking hands as her children pressed into her sides, crying, not understanding.
Two church members, walking home from their own homes of worship, saw the commotion. They saw their pastor being pulled, shoved, and struck. They wanted to intervene, but the mob was too large, too violent, too unpredictable. Instead, compelled by something deeper than instinct, they dropped to their knees right there on the sidewalk. Without hesitation, they lifted their voices to heaven. “Lord, save him! Lord, spare him! Lord, deliver him!”
The pastor continued telling his story, and I felt as if the room around me faded. I could almost see that dark street, the dust rising under frantic feet, the glint of anger in the mob’s eyes, the soft glow of Sabbath candles flickering helplessly inside the house.
“They beat me,” he said quietly. “They beat me again and again. I could feel stones, fists, kicks. I remember looking up at one point and seeing the outline of my wife in the doorway. I worried more for her fear than for my own life.”
Then came the part of the story that made my heart stop.
“They brought gasoline,” he continued. “They poured it over me—my clothes, my hair, my skin. I could smell it. I could taste it. It ran into my eyes. And then a man stepped forward with a box of matches.”
Try—for just a moment—to sit with that. To imagine being drenched in fuel. To imagine the cold awareness that your life might end in the next breath. Or the next strike of a match.
He paused a long moment, and I imagined the two church members still on their knees, still praying, still refusing to rise from the ground while their pastor’s life hung in the balance. I imagined heaven leaning over that moment, holding its breath.
He told me the man opened a small cardboard box—cheap, flimsy, the kind you can buy by the handful in outdoor markets. He removed a match, struck it against the side… and it snapped. He took out another. It crumbled in his fingers. Another. It sparked but fizzled instantly. Another. Nothing.
The mob grew increasingly agitated. The man shook the box. He pounded it in his palm. He tried again. And again. And again. Match after match failed. Not one of them produced a flame—not even a brief flash. The man dumped the entire contents of the box into his hand, examined them with frustration, and struck several at once. Still nothing. They were dead—completely dead—every single one.
And then something happened that cannot be explained by human logic. The mob, so bold just seconds earlier, stepped back. They looked from the matches to the pastor. Something—Someone—was standing between him and the flames. Something unseen, but undeniably present.
Without a word, the man dropped the empty box onto the ground. He turned. And so did the others. They fled—literally fled—down the street, disappearing into the shadows as though they themselves had seen a fire coming toward them.
The pastor lay on the ground, soaked, bruised, trembling. The two church members rushed to him, tears streaming, praising God with sobs. His wife finally ran from the doorway and fell beside him, holding him, weeping into his shoulder.
When he finished his story, the room was silent. I had come to encourage him, but instead I felt myself sinking to my knees beside his chair. I bowed my head and said, “Pastor, pray for me. Lay your hands on me. Ask God to make me faithful. Ask Him to make me true. Ask Him to give me even a fraction of the courage and devotion you showed that night.”
He placed his hands gently on my shoulders. And he prayed—not as a victim, not as a hero, but as a man whose identity had been forged in the fire of trial and preserved by the grace of God.
To this day, I cannot think of that moment without feeling a deep sense of awe. Not awe for the miracle alone, but awe for the evidence. That pastor had evidence of Christ in him—so much evidence that hell took notice. So much evidence that the enemy tried to extinguish it. So much evidence that heaven intervened to preserve it.
And that brings us to the heart of the message: The evidence of your life is not measured by how peaceful your circumstances are, but by how faithful you remain when the matchbox opens. Evidence is not proven in comfort. It is revealed under pressure. It is shaped in trials. It is displayed in how you respond when life is unjust, when people are unkind, when fears rise, when obedience is costly.
If the enemy ever chose to strike a match in your direction, would the universe see the evidence of Christ standing with you?
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Part Three — The Verdict and the Appeal
We arrive at the point where the question can no longer remain theoretical. The great controversy is not a debate happening somewhere else, far removed from your life. It is the very air your spiritual life breathes. It is the stage beneath your feet. And every day, knowingly or unknowingly, you place your loyalty in one of two hands.
In the heavenly courtroom, the evidence never lies.
And that is because evidence is simply the outward revelation of an inward allegiance.
When a person belongs to Christ—truly belongs—there comes a point where it begins to show. Not always dramatically. Not always perfectly. But unmistakably. Over time, Christ reshapes the contours of a person’s being like a potter shaping clay. Whatever was once hard becomes tender; whatever was once bitter becomes humble; whatever was once self-centered begins to turn outward in love.
But that also means there is a sobering truth we cannot avoid:
there are those who profess Christ but do not possess Him.
There are those who know the language of faith but not the life of it.
There are those who can recite Scripture but do not surrender to it.
There are those who identify with Christianity not because they have been transformed but because they have been raised in its shadow.
And so the courtroom metaphor presses its hand onto our hearts and forces us to ask not an intellectual question but a personal one:
What does my life reveal? What is the evidence of my allegiance?
Not what do I claim, but what do I display?
Not what is my doctrine, but what is my direction?
Not what is my religious tradition, but what is my spiritual transformation?
Because here is the truth that humbles every one of us:
Christianity without evidence is just sentiment.
Christianity without transformation is merely culture.
Christianity without surrender is merely religion.
But Christianity with Christ—
that is glory,
that is power,
that is evidence the universe cannot ignore.
Sometimes, though, we misunderstand what evidence actually is. Evidence is not perfection. It is not sinlessness. It is not flawless performance. If that were the standard, even the most devoted saints would be disqualified.
Evidence is movement in the right direction.
Evidence is returning to Christ again and again.
Evidence is the stubborn refusal to let sin have the last word.
Evidence is the deep, Spirit-driven desire to be more like Jesus—even when we fall short.
Evidence is love showing up in unexpected places.
Evidence is forgiveness in a heart that once carried bitterness.
Evidence is courage flickering in a soul that once caved to fear.
Evidence is compassion growing where selfishness used to bloom.
Evidence is trust rising out of the ashes of worry.
And when the enemy sees this evidence—however small, however new, however fragile—he tries to crush it. He despises it, because that evidence points not to your goodness but to God’s victory. It points to the Spirit’s presence. It points to the triumph of grace.
That is why your story matters.
The enemy doesn’t fear you—but he fears the One who lives in you.
He fears the Christ who laid down His life for you.
He fears the Advocate who stands at your side in the heavenly courtroom.
He fears the evidence of Christ’s transforming grace written into your daily walk.
This is why the apostle Paul could look at weakness, trial, and persecution and say, “We are more than conquerors through Him who loved us.” Paul wasn’t boasting in his own strength; he was bearing witness to the evidence of Christ in him.
And so now we come back to the pastor whose story took center stage in Part Two—the night the matches wouldn’t burn. I revisit it here for a reason, because that story holds a mirror up to every one of us. That man didn’t survive because he was brave. He survived because he was surrendered. God spared him not to give him glory, but to bear witness to His own power and mercy.
That pastor’s life had evidence written all over it.
Hell recognized it before many others did.
The enemy struck a match and heaven blew it out.
But here is the part we must not miss:
God gave that man deliverance, but He also gave him depth.
The flame never touched his skin, but the fire refined his soul. That is why, when he prayed over me, the atmosphere of that room felt like holy ground. His faith was not theoretical. It had been tested in gasoline and night. His courage had been tested in the jaws of hatred. His loyalty had been tested in the valley of the shadow of death.
And the evidence stood.
You may never face a mob. You may never kneel in the street while someone tries to strike a match over your life. But you will face trials that require courage. You will face moments where the evidence of your allegiance is put on display. You will have nights where the darkness whispers, “Give up. Compromise. Stay silent. Back away. Hide what you believe.” And what you choose in those moments becomes witness—not only to the world but to the universe.
Don’t misunderstand—God is not standing over you with a clipboard waiting for you to fail. He is standing beside you with an arm around your shoulder, saying, “Let Me be your strength. Let Me be your courage. Let Me be your evidence. Let Me write My story into your life.”
A Christian’s testimony is not something you achieve; it is something you surrender to. Evidence grows from abiding, not striving. Jesus said, “Apart from Me you can do nothing.” That wasn’t a rebuke but an invitation. He was saying, “Lean on Me. Draw from Me. Stay close to Me. Let your roots sink deep into My presence.”
That is the only way evidence grows. And it grows quietly—like dawn lifting across a dark horizon. People begin to see something different in your reactions, your tone, your patience, your forgiveness. Not because you’re trying to impress them, but because Christ is living His life through you.
There is something sacred about a life that has been reshaped by grace. It carries the fragrance of heaven into ordinary rooms. It brings peace into tense conversations. It blesses without demanding anything in return. It serves with hands washed in humility. It speaks with a gentleness strong enough to disarm anger. It walks through suffering with a trust that confounds logic. It stands firm when compromise is convenient.
That is evidence.
That is witness.
That is the courtroom of the universe leaning forward and seeing Jesus in you.
And so we return now to the central question—the question that opened this sermon and now comes full circle with quiet power:
If you were arrested for being a Christian, would there be enough evidence to convict you?
That question is not asked to shame you, but to stir you. It is not asked to expose your failures, but to awaken your desire for something deeper, richer, truer in your walk with Christ.
And if your heart whispers, “The evidence is thin… the devotion is shallow… the loyalty is half-hearted…”
then hear me clearly:
This is not condemnation.
This is invitation.
The God who shut the mouth of those matches can ignite your faith today.
The Christ who stood with that persecuted pastor stands with you now.
The Spirit who whispered courage into trembling disciples whispers it into you.
Jesus does not ask, “Were you faithful yesterday?”
He asks, “Will you surrender today?”
He asks you to choose Him again, now, in this moment.
He asks for your allegiance, your trust, your heart.
And when you say yes, the evidence begins—quietly, steadily, beautifully.
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APPEAL
So today, if the Holy Spirit has touched any corner of your life—any habit you need to loosen your grip on, any resentment that needs releasing, any silence that needs courage, any compromise that needs confession—then let this be the moment you respond.
Say to Him,
“Lord, make me Yours.
Write Your evidence into my life.
Let those around me see Your character in me.
Let the universe recognize my allegiance.
Let heaven itself stand as my witness.”
Because the cross has already settled the case.
The resurrection has already declared the verdict.
Christ has already won.
Now the courtroom of the universe waits for one thing:
Your allegiance.
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CLOSING PRAYER
Father,
thank You for taking the witness stand at Calvary
and revealing Your heart to the universe.
Thank You that the empty tomb declares Your victory
and silences the accusations of the enemy.
We confess that our lives have not always shown the loyalty we profess.
We have been fractured, distracted, inconsistent.
But today we choose.
Today we stand with Jesus.
Write His evidence into our words,
His compassion into our actions,
His courage into our decisions,
His faithfulness into our character.
Make us living testimonies,
witnesses with hearts shaped by Your grace.
Make us faithful.
Make us true.
Make us Yours.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
